Lord Emrys and the Albia flower
by Alia Inverse
Summary: One-shot. Many grand legends are told about the Court Sorcerer, but sometimes the true nature of a man is shown in those minor events that will soon be forgotten by history.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.**

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><p>Many legends are told about Lord Merlin Emrys, Court Sorcerer of Camelot under the reign of the Once and Future King Arthur Pendragon, and many disputes had been held over which of his deeds and achievements is the most noble, the best and most rewarding of them all.<p>

Merely two days ago I was walking down the market where one of those story-tellers, instrument in hand and using those colored fires that children seem to adore, was telling his captured audience about the fight our resident warlock had against the one who had been claimed to be the strongest sorcerer of the Old times, one Cornelius Sigan.

And what a tale it was! The story-teller mimicked the Old Tongue, shouted, threw his arms forward and fell to the ground, reviving an epic battle of various enchantments, lightning and mythical creatures. May the reader recall at this point that, should the records be true, the battle took place under the reign of King Uther the Vengeful, and such a blatant display of magic would have caused its perpetrator to lose his head.

That is, regretfully, a common mistake in those stories. With a complete disregard for the facts, they insist to add cheap tricks of light and sound that any competent being of magic knows to avoid, they value a battle only by the amount of blood that was shed and they ignore those little details that separate man from hero, life from legend.

And so, I have taken upon myself the recording of what Lord Merlin considered his greatest success as he confided in Sir Geoffrey the Monmouth, archivist of the Royal Household, and as I, then a humble apprentice of that wise man, saw, heard and learned. I am well aware that this simple story will never be sung under the sun with the tales of the Slay of the Dragon or the Fall of the Witch, but if it portrays accurately to just one person the nature of the man we are all indebted to, then my job will be completed.

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It is believed that many years ago, when the Old Religion was still young and the Ancient Gods still travelled the lands, hundreds of lesser spirits habituated the water, the earth and the sky. According to the legends, among them was a nymph called Albia_,_ who lived somewhere in the White Mountains. She had inherited all the beauty common among her people, but regretfully, she also had the expected intelligence of the nymphs.

Albia lived her days in peace until one day, playing near the valley, she found a hut hidden among the trees and a young man, fair and strong, who lived alone caring for a little garden full of roses, his pride and joy. The nymph came back many times after that first one, not understanding why the man cared so much for something so fragile and ephemeral. She fell in love with him, sure that her beauty would win his heart; but he only had eyes for his roses.

The flowers mocked her; she began to feel envious of them. Why, she wondered, why can something so small be more than her, a daughter of Earth itself? Her envy soon turned to obsession, and the day came when she could no longer stand it; she travelled far into the caves of the mountains, looking for her Mother Gaia.

The goddess tried time and time again to convince her to cease her efforts, but the nymph was too far gone. In the end, Gaia agreed to grant her wish, and transformed the nymph into a white flower, the most beautiful one. That was not enough for Albia, who wanted to be superior to the man's roses in every way; so Gaia made her ever-young, static, made her so she would never wilt; but with the gift came a curse, for she would never grow or bear fruit either.

At first, the nymph was happy. Winter came and went, and all the roses of the world wilt while she still stood proud. But new sprouts were born in place of the old ones. The man aged and died, and young people took his place. And eventually, the nymph realized that which she had lost. She wept in the dawn for many nights, until the Mother took pity on her; Albia could never return to her previous form, but Gaia made it so should she find someone with a powerful love in his heart, the plant would evolve changing into what that person most desired.

That was the myth told by a travelling merchant, a man of loud voice that claimed to have the rarest wonders of the world. I still remember the flower he claimed to be Albia_,_ and it was indeed a beautiful thing. The petals were white and open even in the early winter, and the leaves had a hint of golden among the purest green I have ever seen. Yet I, as most of the swindler's audience, was convinced that it had to be a fake, a little trinket with some easy enchantment to impress the ladies.

The reader may understand then the surprise that followed when none other than Lord Emrys approached the man to buy the flower. Everyone in the plaza held their breath as he took it with reverence and observed it under the sunlight, maneuvering as if it was made of pure glass. Lord Emrys asked the man to name a price, but he refused; saying that having the flower bloom at last would be enough reward. Suffice to say, many approached his stand once the Court Sorcerer left, and no merchant sold more or made more profits than he did that evening.

The flower was placed in the Court Sorcerer's chambers then, and many used different excuses to see it, each one stranger and more convoluted than the other. Many weeks passed, but the flower never changed, not even when spring passed and one of the hottest summers Camelot had ever seen came. I remember asking him if he believed the story told by the merchant. And Lord Emrys said, 'I don't know if it is truly a nymph or not. But come and listen; she is lonely.' And for a moment, in the silence of the room, I truly believed that I heard a young woman weep.

I would often sneak into the room to observe the flower; sometimes it was on the table, among many papers and scripts in various languages; sometimes it was by the window, where the life of the citadel could be seen. Many times I saw Lord Merlin taking care of her, talking to her or casting easy enchantments around the room as if he was truly entertaining a young woman. More than once I entered his chambers to find the flames of the candles dancing around the room, as if they had a life of their own.

The first change came in autumn. One day, the petals would not point to the sky as they had always done; the next, the tips of the leaves became a warm brown. No matter how much water she received or how much we treated her, the flower was wilting. And it was then that all of my doubts disappeared, for even in her decaying state, it was the most beautiful thing I could have ever imagined and to this day, I haven't found anything that could compare to the majesty of that dying plant.

And right in the middle a new sprout was growing, as if it was taking what little life was left to form something else, something new and marvelous. People began to visit once again, and many guesses were made; since the flower had answered to someone with such magic, the fruit was expected to be something of incredible power; something that could cure all illnesses maybe, or that would protect the men in battle. Then, a month after the flower began to wilt… it disappeared.

Lord Emrys went missing for three days, and he took the Albia flower to an unknown place; when asked, he said that the fruit beared by that flower had been planted somewhere where no mortal would reach it, to grow and wilt as the laws of nature stated. He never told anyone what had been born from the miraculous plant.

For many that was the end of the story, and the beginning of a minor legend. That is how it should have been, but I know the truth; the story of the nymph had fascinated me to unhealthy levels, which is why during that last month, many nights passed were I had kept watch in the chambers. The plant gave three red little fruits, magical by birth yet impossible to tell apart from their cousins, born from the earth.

Only years later did I gather the courage to ask my mentor, Sir Geoffrey, about them. Why the mystical flower, under the care of the most powerful sorcerer to have ever been born, had only given three humble strawberries?

He smiled knowingly, making me feel like a child, and said: 'Because for that man, strawberries are the most precious treasure of them all.'

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, please leave a review if you liked it ^^.<strong>


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